


here is the deepest secret nobody knows

by blackkat



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Children of Earth Fix-It, M/M, Time Travel, redo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto closes his eyes in Thames House, lungs full of choking alien gas, and opens them in his sister's house in Cardiff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you are whatever a moon has always meant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weeping00willow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeping00willow/gifts).



Ianto closes his eyes in Thames House, lungs full of choking alien gas, and opens them in his sister's house in Cardiff. He's sitting at the kitchen table, and there's a steaming cup of tea in front of him. Darjeeling, unless he misses his guess. It's always been her favorite.

There's a white horse grazing outside the kitchen window.

Rhiannon sits across from him, sipping from her own chipped mug, but Ianto only needs a glance to know that something isn't right here. He knows his sister, even if they haven't been face to face in a while, and she doesn't sit like this, with an almost regal bearing. She doesn't hold herself this way, or smile like that, so motherly and warm.

(Their mother hadn't lived long enough to pass on her nurturing ways. Maybe Rhiannon's learned some of it from having her own children, but this expression looks older than that, more practiced. It's not that it doesn't sit right on Rhiannon's face, it's the fact that it _does_ that makes Ianto realize something's different.)

"That's rather rude," he says mildly, because even though something's different, nothing is _wrong_ , and after so long at Torchwood, he can tell the difference between the two states.

Not-Rhiannon looks at him, startled, and then automatically looks down at the cup resting in her clasped hands, as though to see what he's referring to. There's nothing, though. It's a perfect illusion, or would be if he weren't trained to notice the little differences between _human_ and _other_ , and she lifts her gaze back to him with a brow arched in question.

Ianto makes a gesture that encompasses the entire scene, from her in the chair to the vase of flowers by the sink. "Borrowing someone's face without permission. Rather rude."

There's a momentary pause, and the entire world goes still. Not-Rhiannon stares at him for an endless moment before she smiles slowly, sweet and pleased, and then she's not Rhiannon anymore. There's no flicker, no flash of light or ripple of reality bending. Ianto's sister ceases to be between one second and the next, and sitting in her place is an ageless woman in a white dress, a cascade of copper curls tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. There's no crown, no scepter, no ornate robes or signs of office, but she holds herself like a queen. She's beautiful, too, so beautiful that Ianto can't quite breathe when he looks at her, the weight of such loveliness all but overwhelming.

"Forgive me," she says, and it's throaty and sweet in a way human voices can't be—starlight and summer breezes and the warm, clear light of the moon. "I thought ill news might come more easily from a familiar face." Her smile is kind, inviting him to share in the joke. "As your sister is my namesake, it was too convenient an opportunity to overlook."

 _Rhiannon_ , Ianto thinks, and then he can't think any more, because Rhiannon is the mother goddess of Wales, underworld goddess and moon goddess and fertility goddess, death and life and everything between.

It makes sense, though, in a way, because Ianto is fairly certain that he died in Thames House, and yet here he sits.

Carefully, he sets his teacup down, takes a cautious breath, and asks, "I'm dead, then?"

Rhiannon leans forward and takes Ianto's hands in hers. Her fingers are both cool and hot, like moonlight set aflame, and her eyes are very, very blue. "Not quite," she says, as if it's a secret just between them, though her smile never wavers. "Do you remember Abaddon, Ianto?"

Before he can stop himself, Ianto arches an eyebrow at her. He's not very likely to _forget_ the hundred-foot tall, life-sucking demon from the Rift that attempted to devour all of Cardiff, and very nearly managed to kill Jack permanently. Even for Torchwood, that was a fairly memorable day.

Thankfully, Rhiannon only laughs, sweet and entirely mirthful, and squeezed his fingers lightly. "Ah, yes," she says, grinning at him, somehow both charming and a little silly. "I suppose that isn't the kind of thing that fades from memory, is it?"

"No," Ianto agrees, dust-dry. "It's not."

They're both silent for a moment as Ianto puts the pieces into place, slots away what information he has.

He's dead.

He died at Thames House.

The goddess Rhiannon is here for some reason.

Abaddon has something to do with this.

Rhiannon folds her arms on the table and leans towards him again, smiling at him through a spill of copper hair. "Chaos," she says softly. "Abaddon is chaos, Ianto. He is its avatar, its personification, and destruction given form. The Grey Beast, they call him. He was trapped within the Rift for centuries, which contained his influence, and kept it from touching the mortal world."

Ianto is not a fool, as foolish as some of his past actions have been—rushing into Thames House unprepared foremost on that list. Like pieces of a puzzle finally realized, the information clicks into place, and he drums his fingers on the table, feeling a frown settle on his face. "And you're order," he murmurs, trying to see the bigger picture. "That's why you're here, to counteract him. When Owen opened the Rift, all of the chaos that had been trapped with Abaddon escaped, and the influence of it—"

"Yes." Rhiannon's eyes are sad. "Everything around that point in time was affected. The whole world has been living in an alternate timeline formed by Abaddon's power. This isn't how the future was supposed to play out."

The simplicity of those ten words is enough to steal Ianto's breath, enough to unsettle the world beneath his feet. He grasps the edge of the table to steady himself, hard enough that the wood nearly cuts into his skin. If the timeline he just came from was wrong, from the point of Abaddon's emergence until his death, then everything in it has been wrong as well. Owen's death, Tosh's death, Jack leaving them for months without notice, the 456 and Ianto's own death—none of it was meant to happen.

If they can correct the timeline, everyone will be saved.

"Why me?" he has to ask, the words forced unwittingly from his throat. "Why bring me here, why tell me this? I'm just…"

Rhiannon's hands close around his again, and he looks up into her soft smile, her wise, kind eyes. "You're more than you know, Ianto," she corrects. "More than anyone knows. Your heart shines in the darkness. You've never given up, never given in, and it shows. When I looked into the human world for an avatar, the choice was clear. I'm going to send you back, Ianto, back before all of this began, and give you knowledge of the future so that Abaddon never escapes. Fix that, and time will flow naturally again. The timeline will repair itself, and you'll have saved the world."

"All in a day's work for Torchwood," Ianto murmurs, looking down at his teacup. It's hard to meet her eyes for long, nearly impossible to hold that ancient gaze, but the thought of going back, of starting over again, is heady. He takes a breath and raises his eyes, meeting burning blue head on. "How far back? Will…will I be able to fix everything?"

 _Lisa_ , he thinks, remembering the agony of seeing her completely consumed by the Cyber-programming. Would he be able to fix that, fix her, if he went far enough back?

He thinks of Jack, and has to wonder if he'd want to.

But the goddess is already shaking her head, watching him with sympathetic eyes. "No," she says sadly. "I can only send you back to the start of Abaddon's influence. Otherwise, it will be considered unnecessary influencing of the mortal world, and agents of Chaos will be able to act to counter me. That's why you will be my avatar, Ianto. You'll be able to affect things I cannot directly touch." She pauses, studying their intertwined fingers for a moment, and then murmurs, "Will you be able to do this, Ianto? Will you be strong enough to face this all for a second time, know that you could fail? Knowing that you may have to kill Bilis Manger before he begins his manipulations? Can you take a life in cold blood?"

Ianto looks at her, and thinks of Jack's grief at the loss of Owen, at Owen's final death and Tosh's murder, at the betrayal of his only remaining family. He thinks of his own grief at the loss of the only close family he had, the Torchwood team, and Gwen's disillusionment and jading.

Thinks of Lisa, and how he doesn't think he could— _would_ —try to save her, not now, not at the cost of everything he and Jack had together. There's never been a cure found for the Cyber programming, and time—as well as love for Jack—has cleared Ianto's eyes enough to see that all the determination in the world wouldn't have found one in time to save Lisa from what she eventually became.

Does he still mourn her?

Of course, but part of his drive to cure her had been a refusal to acknowledge the tragedy of Canary Wharf, a selfish desire to save at least one person after so many others had died, and Ianto is wise enough to see that now.

With that in mind, with that in his heart, the decision to face such things for a second time is simple enough.

As for killing Manger, even in cold blood—

Well, Ianto knows himself, knows how deep his loyalty runs. To save Jack the pain of losing yet more people he cares for, to save Tosh from death, even to save Owen, Ianto can and will take a life.

He will not do so eagerly, or gladly, but he will do so willingly and without the slightest hesitation to save those he considers family.

A breath, another, and he looks up to meet Rhiannon's eyes again.

"Yes," he says softly. "Whatever needs to be done."

The goddess smiles like a tigress, like a lioness grabbing for a careless gazelle, and leans across the table. Her long, slim fingers settle on either side of Ianto's face, and her lips brush his forehead. The touch of them is like lightning down his spine, like the kiss of a wildfire, or a sun going nova. Ianto sucks in a breath that's not quite pain, but not quite not-pain, and stiffens as his blood burns away, leaving quicksilver moonlight in its place.

The world goes white, brilliance suffuses everything, and the neat kitchen is gone.

Ianto opens his eyes to darkness, to the sound of Jack's heartbeat beneath his ear, and lets out another slow breath.

He's in Jack's bunker, curled around Jack's sleep-still form on the tiny camp bed, with the normal nighttime sounds of the Hub coming through the hole above. Jack's arm is around him, holding him close, and Ianto's body aches pleasantly with use.

The spot on his forehead where Rhiannon kissed him tingles, like a current has been passed through it, and Ianto thinks he can see the faintest hint of moonlight in the dark bunker, even though he shouldn't.

"Thank you," he whispers, nearly soundless in the night, the words barely a breath on Jack's warm skin. "Thank you, goddess."

There's a crescent moon, like a bow, burned into the back of his hand, and it glows as brightly as the real thing.

"Thank you," he whispers again, and "I love you, Jack," because he's said it once before already, while he was dying, and the second time isn't nearly as terrifying.

There's no response from the sleeping man, and Ianto lets the darkness keep the words.

(For now, at least. Jack will hear them soon enough.)


	2. and whatever a sun will always sing is you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I'm disregarding everything about Abaddon that's learned in _Twilight Streets_ ; this version of Abaddon could be considered my own creation, as he’s entirely different. Also note that this chapter descends into blatant, brazen schmoop. I regret nothing.

Jack wakes to an empty bed, even though he distinctly remembers falling asleep the night before with a gorgeous Welshman tucked against him.

But the sheets beside him are warm, and Ianto's shirt, waistcoat, and suit jacket are still lying crumpled at the foot of the bed, where they had been discarded. The smell of coffee filters down through the open manhole, drawing Jack like a drug. He doesn't even attempt to resist, pulling on his trousers and climbing up into the Hub.

Ianto is seated midway up on the stairs leading down from Jack's office, wearing Jack's shirt, with a cup of coffee clasped in both hands. The shirt is too big for him, tailored for Jack's broader shoulders, and hangs open, the blue of it making his eyes all but glow in the pre-dawn dimness.

 _He's beautiful_ , Jack thinks, pausing at the railing to simply look at him. It feels almost sacrilegious somehow, to feel like this, to appreciate something like this, when Suzie lies beneath their feet, newly dead for a second time. But he can't help it, caught by the image that Ianto makes, solemn and somehow nostalgic, looking out over the Hub as though he hasn't seen it recently, as though it's new to him.

Jack's bare feet are nearly silent on the metal steps, but Ianto looks up anyway, offering Jack a small smile as the Captain settles on the stairs above him. Without Jack having to suggest it, Ianto leans back into the cradle of Jack's legs, resting against his chest, and lets Jack steal his coffee cup.

It feels far more familiar than it has any right to, as though they've been doing this for years already, instead of just this one morning. Jack takes a careful breath and curves his fingers around Ianto's surprisingly slim shoulder, holding him in place against him. The coffee is still piping hot, and nearly burns his throat on the way down, but it's the perfect dark blend of bitter and sweet, as heady as kisses on Jack's tongue. He closes his eyes and savors the taste, savors the heat of Ianto's lean body in his arms.

He takes a breath, lets the sounds of the Hub wash over him, and when he opens his eyes Ianto has his head tipped back, smiling up at him.

"Good?" he asks softly, voice throaty and low, and Jack's breath catches because he knows, _knows_ that Ianto means far more than just the coffee.

"Yes," he answers, his own voice rough, and he means more than the coffee, too.

It's very, very good, indeed.

The coffee cup settles on the steps with a sharp clank, and Jack leans forward, wrapping his arms around Ianto and pressing his face into the side of his neck. Ianto smells of freshly ground coffee and a trace of spice, and Jack has to wonder at the liberties Ianto is letting him take. Most people from this time are uncomfortable with such intimacy right off the bat, such closeness in a new relationship. Jack had woken up expecting to find Ianto twitchy and uncertain, a belief only furthered by his absence from the bed. But instead, Ianto is acting like an old lover, a familiar partner, and Jack has no idea what he did right to receive a blessing like this, especially in the wake of Suzie's second betrayal.

Ianto's hands stroke over his bare arms, trace over his fingers, and Jack breathes out, all but boneless with contentment. But… "The others will be here soon," he murmurs into Ianto's skin, smiling a little at the small shiver his lips on the sensitive skin produce.

There's a momentary pause, and then Ianto's fingers settle more firmly on his skin, pressing just a little. Ianto hesitates, stills, and whispers, "Them knowing…would you mind? Would it be so bad?"

Jack lifts his head in surprise, looking down at the top of Ianto's head. "No," he answers honestly. "I'll shout it from the rooftops if you want. I just thought you'd be uncomfortable."

Jack counts six heartbeats in the silence before Ianto leans back against him just a bit, and says softly, "I'm in love with you, Jack."

Of all the many things Jack expected him to say, that was never one of them.

"I just…thought you should know," Ianto finishes, and turns his head to press his cheek to Jack's hair. "You don't…you shouldn't feel obligated to feel the same way. I've never thought that love is something that's only worthwhile when fully returned. But I'm in love with you, and if that can ever make you smile, or feel content, or give your world a little more light, well. I just wanted to…tell you."

Beneath Jack's hand, beneath the skin and muscle and bone of his chest, Ianto's heart flutters hummingbird-quick, so fragile and brave.

 _Smile_ , Jack thinks, even though he doesn't say anything. _You should always smile, Ianto. Always._

There are many, many things Jack could say right now.

"Yes," he whispers at length. "Yes, it helps. Thank you, Ianto."

* * *

The decision not to tell Jack is easily made. Jack has his own burdens, especially now when he doesn't trust Ianto to share them, and Ianto refuses to add to them. And regardless, Ianto is going to change the timeline. Soon all of the knowledge he has, all of his information on the future, will be obsolete.

It won't matter. As soon as Ianto kills Bilis, the threat of that future will be gone.

He sighs softly, sliding an old file on alternate timelines and their effects back into place on the shelf. The Archives are quiet in the middle of the day, cool and dark and full of the musty, dry scent of old paper with a sharper bite of metal and electricity beneath. It's nothing like the whitewashed, clinical bareness that was One's Archives, or even the hushed library-like grandeur of Torchwood House. Three's Archives are strange and surprising and a little dangerous, like everything else about Torchwood Cardiff. Ianto loves them, loves their uniqueness the same way he loves Three in general.

In the dimness, the crescent moon on his head glows like a captured sun. Ianto glances down at it, then turns and heads for the main part of the Hub, where Tosh is bent over her keyboard and Jack is pretending to do paperwork but really only managing to work his desk into a disaster zone.

"I'm going to get lunch," Ianto calls, pulling on his coat. "The usual?"

Tosh looks up, startled, and then smiles at him. "Yes, please."

"Vegetables, Ianto," Jack calls. "Don't forget."

Ianto rolls his eyes, even though the Captain probably can't see from that distance, but raises a hand in acknowledgment. He takes the lift up to the Tourist Office, which is in fairly urgent need of care, and heads for the café across the Plass.

There's a woman waiting at one of the tables, businesslike in a neat pinstripe suit, her hair a wild tumble of fiery curls. She's reading a book, Ianto sees as he approaches, something ridiculously thick and heavy, with a noble hero and beautiful damsel on the cover. There's a dragon on there, too, and Ianto snorts softly as he takes a seat across from her.

Rhiannon peers at him over the top of the book, eyes bright with mischief. "Don't mock high fantasy, Ianto. The irony is wonderful."

Ianto politely refrains from pointing out that Robert Jordan might be high fantasy, but he also wouldn't know a plot hole if it bit him in the ass. "Is this allowed?" he asks instead. "Meeting with me? I thought you weren't allowed to interfere."

"I'm not." Rhiannon sets the book down, touching the cover lightly. "This is just…a friendly checkup on my avatar. Manger speaks to Abaddon frequently, after all. We're allowed to direct _you_ , as long as we leave everyone else alone."

The silence between them is fairly easy, which surprises Ianto a little. He's used to being stiff and uncomfortable with strangers, only relaxing around the Torchwood team, but Rhiannon is…different. Perhaps that's to be expected, though.

"I'm not going to tell Jack what happened," he says at length. "There's no need for him to know, and it will only be more of a burden, especially when we correct the timelines and everything goes back to how it should be.

Rhiannon nods, easily accepting. "Very well, it's your choice. But you'll have to stop Manger before he can send Captain Harkness and your friend Tosh into the past. That's the trigger for releasing Abaddon; after that point, nothing can change significantly enough to alter the outcome of events. I can only bring you back to life so many times before the timelines are permanently broken, Ianto, so be careful."

Ianto nods in acknowledgment and contemplates his hands where they rest on the tablecloth. He's already got the workings of a plan, and idea stirring in his thoughts. It's not the best, not overly clever, but it should work for that reason. Simple is always best, in cases like these.

When he looks up, Rhiannon is watching him, lips tipped in a faint smile. She says nothing, though, vanishing without a word in the space between seconds, and Ianto is alone again.

Though not really, he thinks, glancing down at the crescent on his hand, then back towards the invisible left.

He's not alone anymore, and he hasn't been for a long time now.

* * *

When he carries the sandwiches and salads back to the Hub, there's a piece of paper propped against his coffee cup, on his desk. Ianto picks it up curiously; it's too deliberate to be a scrap, so maybe a joke? But Owen is in Holyhead with Gwen, so probably not.

There's a single line of Jack's neat, bold print on it, and Ianto has to read it twice to realize what it says.

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)_

Ianto wants to smile, but it's too simple a response. Wants to cry, but that's too complicated. Taking a breath, a second, he raises the paper to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the letters, to this small bit of proof that he's not alone in his regard.

Jack loves him in return, and even if he never, ever manages to say it out loud, this is enough.


	3. here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

Ianto doesn't spend much time at his apartment—hadn't even before he and Jack were _something_ together, because Torchwood eats at the lives of all those involved with it, devours them and leaves empty shells behind.

 _Like Suzie_ , Ianto thinks, and the thought is still full of grief and anger, because she had her secrets, just as Ianto did. Does.

They're more alike than he cares to consider.

So his apartment usually stands empty, as he's absent more nights than not. The couch in the Hub is awful and uncomfortable, lumpy enough that it probably defies physics in some way, but it's good enough, and Ianto has never before expected to live long enough to deal with chiropractors. Torchwood agents aren't exactly known for their prolonged life expectancy.

But he's the avatar of a goddess now, a kind one, who has the power to bring him back from the dead—more than once, if her words during their earlier meeting are anything to go by.

It's enough to make his head spin, to make him take a few hours on his own for contemplation, so he lets himself into his apartment with the key he rarely uses. There's a layer of dust over everything, and the air has the musty smell of stagnation. Ianto wrinkles his nose and goes to throw open all of the windows, allowing the nighttime breeze in to sweep out the staleness.

His herb garden, at least, is doing well, Ianto thinks wryly, regarding the small jungle taking over his kitchen counter.

When he turns around, there's a package wrapped in red cloth sitting on his dining table, which he could have sworn had been empty a heartbeat before.

The full moon glows outside the window, even though it should be obscured by smog and light pollution. Its glow falls directly on the bundle, and Ianto can take a hint when its shoved in his face.

A breath, a step, and the red cotton falls away beneath his fingertips, pooling on the cherry-dark wood with a sound like a sigh. Ianto smoothes it absently, eyes on the silver cuff in the center, on the sheathed knife with an intricate silver handle. Both blaze in the moonlight, brighter than they should be, and when Ianto lifts the cuff bracelet, it's warm against his skin.

There's a complex knot carved into the silver. Ianto traces it with a fingertip, a never-ending line that crosses and weaves with itself, bound around a crescent moon. Rhiannon's mark, without a doubt, just inconspicuous enough that Ianto can wear it without question. The team has already seen him wear necklaces, so they'll probably assume that the bracelet is normal, too.

But Ianto knows it for what it is, and Manger will, too.

"Rhiannon," he murmurs as he slips it into place, because it feels like a declaration, like something he should acknowledge.

The knife slides out of its sheath with a deadly whisper, the edge so fine that it's almost invisible, as bright as burning moonlight. It's nothing overly complex, nothing ornate, just a simple long dagger.

Ianto isn't a fool. He had all but left home when he was fourteen, as soon as he could conceivably survive on his own. He's seen street brawls, fights in back alleys that leave half of the combatants dead or dying. Experience has taught him that there's no such thing as knife fighting. There's assassination, surprise murder, and having the better weapon. "Knife masters" teach a style of fighting that could never possibly work in reality.

Once, in the darkness of an abandoned house, James Terry had leaned close to Ianto and showed him an army survival knife, dark and heavy with a single blade honed to a deadly edge. "Here," he'd said. "Take it. Someone comes at you with a stick, get a club. Someone comes at you with a club, pull this. The movies got it all wrong. Using with a knife's not like dueling with a sword. By the time you see a blade coming, you're already dead. Make sure the other guy's dead first, yeah?"

Ianto has never forgotten that, even when he's being civilized, even when he pretends that his father was a master tailor instead of an often-drunk bastard who worked at Debenhams. For the most part, Torchwood deals with aliens, not human scumbags, but Ianto's always watching, always ready. If he'd been a little more careful, a little more prepared when Owen faced down Aaron Copley, he might have been able to knock the doctor out of the way, because Copley didn't look like a rational man who wouldn't shoot, no matter what Owen said. He'd looked desperate, and mad, and that only added up to one thing.

(If it comes to that, he won't make the same mistake twice.)

This knife is an edge, one he suspects that Bilis, for all his experience and age, will never see coming.

After all, no one ever does, with murder.

The sheath fits neatly, inconspicuously underneath his holster, beneath the waistband of his pants and next to his skin.

(It's warm, too.)

Ianto turns and looks around his clinically neat apartment, at the layer of dust and the herb-jungle and the way everything sits at perfect right angles, from the book of photography on the coffee table to the couch to the DVDs on their shelves.

This isn't home.

This isn't even a place he's _fond_ of.

Thinking here won't lead to anything good, so Ianto turns on his heel, picks up his keys, and walks right back out. The door clicks closed behind him with an almost final sound, like a last farewell.

Ianto doesn't look back.

* * *

Bilis Manger is disgustingly easy to find, so much so that Ianto wants to be sick. So much pain and horror, so many deaths that could have been prevented if only they'd all caught on a little sooner.

He pulls up a business directory, makes note of the hours that A Stitch In Time is open, and then closes it and wipes his history.

Somewhere, he's fairly certain that Rhiannon is smiling.

* * *

Jack watches Ianto carefully. There's something different about him, something that has changed, and Jack isn't entirely certain what it is.

But, looking at the expression on Ianto's face when Tosh stumbles in, sleep-deprived and half-coherent as she comes begging for coffee, it's something significant. Ianto looks like a man seeing a ghost, or someone he'd thought dead. And when he smiles at her, it's like a sun breaking, so full of brilliance and good humor and genuine affection that even Tosh, in her dazed state, is startled to stillness for a moment.

Then Ianto offers her a mug of coffee and the moment is gone, lost to Ianto's professional face and quiet competence.

But Jack can't shake it from his mind. Something changed, and from Ianto's reaction, it's for the better.

Then Ianto turns, looking up at Jack as though he can feel the Captain's gaze, and that smile returns for a brief moment. Jack can't help but smile back, because he's overwhelmed by the sudden surge of _softness_ for this beautiful, battered, but surprisingly strong Welshman who should, by all rights, be dead already. That he survived Canary Wharf is a miracle; that he's survived Torchwood Three this long is testament to his strength of will and ingenuity.

Ianto had slept in the Hub again last night, and Jack doesn't want to assume, doesn't want to leap blindly to conclusions, but he can't help but think that maybe this isn't just a fling, maybe this isn't just a quick burst of passion between two people who are too consumed by their jobs to look elsewhere. Perhaps Ianto wants something _real_.

Jack supposes that thought should scare the fuck out of him, but it doesn't. It's _good_. Amazing, even, and Jack isn't used to having amazing things. Not for long.

The soft tread of Italian footwear pulls Jack's attention back to his surroundings, and he turns in time to see Ianto offering him another cup of coffee. He takes it with a wry smile. "If I get the jitters, Ianto, you're going to be to blame."

Ianto arches an immaculate eyebrow at him, and if Jack didn't know better, he'd never guess that just an hour ago, Ianto had been a flushed, panting mess, pinned to Jack's bed and absolutely wicked. "Of course, sir," Ianto drawls, and he's one of the best Jack's ever seen at deadpan. "Because I am so clearly twisting your arm to make you drink my coffee. It must be my fault." He reaches out, beckoning. "All right, if you don't want it, give it here."

Jack makes a face at him, clutching the mug a little tighter. "I didn't say that," he protests, turning away defensively to put his body between Ianto and the coffee. "Go away, it's mine."

Ianto snorts softly and steps up to Jack's side, leaning lightly against him. "I would never dare," he murmurs, rolling his eyes. Jack rolls his eyes right back, sliding an arm over those thin shoulders and tugging him close. _Ianto needs to eat more_ , Jack thinks, and it's still odd, to realize that this is permanent enough that he _can_ think something like that, that he can plan to take care of his lover and actually do so. For so long, he's resigned himself to one-offs and short affairs, stolen moments that are never quite as close as he would like, but that he has to make do with anyway.

With a soft sigh, more contentment than weariness, Ianto's dark head comes to rest on Jack's shoulder, and Jack pulls him in closer, heart a lump in his throat. This is what he's wanted for so long, this closeness, this companionship, an equal partner in all things. That Ianto's willing to give it is perhaps the most unlooked-for bit of good fortune whatever gods there are have graced him with.

"Thanks," he murmurs into Ianto's ear, and if Ianto doesn't quite understand, if the look he gives Jack is one part surprise to three parts confusion, well. That's just fine. Jack knows what this means—to him, to both of them—and that's enough.

"Ugh, tea boy's screwing the boss." Owen's acerbic, biting voice announces his arrival. "Can't you take that somewhere the rest of us won't see?"

Jack half-expects Ianto to tense and pull away, to retreat in the face of Owen's abrasive comments, but the Welshman just rolls his eyes and tucks himself under Jack's arm a little more. "You're jealous," he retorts. "No luck in the pubs without alien pheromones to help you, Owen?"

A snarled curse is his only answer, and Ianto chuckles, turning his head to press a soft kiss to the inside of Jack's wrist. "I wish he'd open his eyes," he says, shaking his head a little. "If he'd just see that Tosh would be good for him…"

It's not a surprise that Ianto has seen the attraction on Tosh's side; most people can, even strangers, which is what makes it so painful when Owen ignores that. What _is_ surprising is that Ianto can tell it's mutual, even though Owen hasn't acted on it—and that he thinks they'll be good for each other.

"Well," Jack says casually, "matchmaking isn't really in the job description, but I think in this case, we can probably make an exception. Up for it?"

"Always, sir," Ianto answers, and his smile is the sweetly brilliant one Jack is already coming to love with all his heart.

And it's mutual. Ianto loves him just as much, and that's just _brilliant._

 _i carry your heart with me_ , Jack thinks. _i carry it in my heart_. _i am never without it._

* * *

 _Yes,_ Ianto thinks. _Yes, Rhiannon, I will kill a man to keep this. I will kill Bilis Manger, and I will save this._


	4. higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide

Were this a move—some sort of thriller, Ianto thinks, with mysteries and covert agents and aliens and the fate of the world hanging in the balance—and were he some sort of James Bond, the preparation for this final showdown would be accompanied by appropriately dramatic music, building anticipation as the hero dressed menacingly in black skintight clothes and strapped on a truly alarming number of weapons.

But this isn't, and Ianto hardly considers himself the angsty, plucky hero of this tale. There's no dramatic music, and as tempting as it is to wear black and dig out some sort of balaclava, Ianto is entirely aware that the only advantage he has going for him in this attack is the element of surprise.

Rhiannon watches him from her seat at his kitchen table, somehow managing to give the cheap IKEA chair the same air as a gilded throne. Any veneer of mortality is gone; her hair is a cascade of deep red fire, and she's wearing robes as white and shining as the crescent moon outside the window. A silver circlet cuts through her hair and lies in a comet-trail of silver across her brow, and there's a quiver of arrows slung over her back. Her bow is a pale, gleaming curve at her bare feet, and if Ianto doesn't look too closely, he could almost mistake it for that same moon. There's something vast and shining about her, something so far beyond the realm of human conception that it's hard to look at her without feeling a stab of _worshipaweterroradorationdev otion_ deep in his gut, aching and wonderful.

Around his wrist, the cuff gleams softly, warm in the same moment that it's icy cold.

Not wearing his suit and tie for a Torchwood matter—and this is, really, because for all that it's selfish Ianto could care less about the rest of the world; he just wants to save his family—feels a bit like going into battle naked. But Ianto's greatest edge is that Bilis won't know about Rhiannon pulling him back through time, won't pick Ianto out from anyone else on the street. And Ianto is quite aware that he looks like any other young man, wearing faded jeans and a simple canvas jacket.

The knife goes under his jacket, which is open to allow for an easy draw. He's facing a man who can slip through time in the blink of an eye, who can call up illusions of the dead to manipulate people. His own speed with a knife and his ability to blindside Bilis will be the only way this will work.

He takes a deep breath and looks up at Rhiannon. "You're certain he won't have felt you pull me back through time? He doesn't know that I know about him?"

The goddess shakes her head. "No, Ianto. Abaddon's plan is almost ready to be put into place; Manger will be focusing on that. He's not aware that I've chosen a champion. That timeline…it's not real, not yet, and not ever if you succeed today. He can't feel anything from it, nor will he."

"Right." Another breath, slow and steady to calm himself, and Ianto tugs the sleeve of his jacket down a little to cover the cuff. He touches the knife's hilt, a solid bit of deadly comfort. It reminds him of nights striding through Cardiff's back streets, feeling dangerous and like he ruled the world. The thought makes him smile a bit, because now he _is_ dangerous, and his goddess rules at least all of Wales.

When he looks up again, Rhiannon is watching him with a smile, benevolent and beautiful. She picks up her bow and rises from the chair with boneless grace, impossibly powerful and completely overwhelming in her loveliness, then steps forward and leans down to kiss Ianto on the forehead. "My blessing upon you, Ianto Jones," she murmurs, and the touch is still fire and moonlight, the breathlessness of a hunt and the exhilaration of a midnight ride at full gallop. Ianto catches his breath, feel the burn of her power in his veins, and trembles.

Then she's gone in the space between seconds, the only mark of her presence the silver bow and full quiver of raven feather-fletched arrows resting on the table.

Ianto glances at them, reaching out and letting his fingers trail over the pale curve. The bow hums under his touch, making him smile even as he steps back, taking a single arrow with him to tuck under his coat.

With a mental note to look up an archery range and instructor at some point in the near future, Ianto turns away and strides out the door, letting it swing quietly shut behind him.

* * *

A Stitch In Time is still closed when Ianto arrives and slips into the shadows of the surrounding building. He's about an hour early, which is as he planned, and he leans back against the stone to wait. It's early, and tongues of gossamer mist still linger in the deserted streets, making Ianto hunker into his coat a bit and wish for a scarf. But, in case this devolves into a physical confrontation, a scarf will only hinder him.

He fingers the arrow tucked into an inner pocket of his coat, working to keep his breathing even. There are no second thoughts in his head, no hesitations, only the faintest of doubts, because it isn't that he _will_ do this. It's that he _must_. For the sake of everything that's dear to him, for the sake of keeping this world, this time, as it should be, he has to.

That takes away all need for uncertainties, all ability to question himself.

This is to be done, and it _must_ be done. It's as simple as that.

Just as Ianto's watch shows that fifty minutes have passed, the tap of fine leather shoes against the pavement draws his attention, and he looks up. Bilis manger is approaching, carrying a briefcase. He walks right up to Ianto without so much as glancing at him, and makes to pass him.

Faster than he's ever moved before, Ianto yanks the arrow out, shifts to a better grip, and stabs it clean through Bilis's side.

Bilis screams, wrenching away and turning to protect his wound, but it's too late. Rhiannon's arrow is all but a part of her, a piece of her aspect carried with her for ages beyond count, and it cancels out Abaddon's powers. Chaos and order, destruction and creation—they meet and stall, and Abaddon's gifts are useless now. Bilis is pinned in this time, like a butterfly to a card.

He knows it, too, Ianto thinks dispassionately, watching the horror fill the old man's face.

"Manger," he says softly. "I won't let you finish this."

Bilis straightens as much as he can, and even though it's not a killing wound, it's a weakening one. He's an old man, for all the Rift and Abaddon have done for him, and he's losing blood. But there's a dagger in his hand, dark, and Ianto knows that it's the one he stabs Rhys with in just a few short days.

Quite obviously, though, Bilis hasn't learned the kinds of lessons that Ianto has, regarding street fighting and weapons. The only reason to use a knife is to stack the deck, to gain an advantage of surprise and better weaponry, and standing there with the knife visible and still is a good threat, but a bad tactic.

Ianto allows himself to smile a little, because Bilis is from a time when duels were the way people fought, and that's an advantage Ianto will use to its greatest extent. He pulls his arms out of the sleeves of his coat and lets it drop, the kicks it out of the way, which is more dramatic a gesture than he's entirely comfortable with, but necessary so as not to slow him down.

Bilis turns the knife in his hand and lunges like a swordsman, point leading. Ianto meets him like a street fighter, knocking the blade out of the way with the silver cuff even as he slams bodily into the slighter man. His own dagger is in his hand in just over a second, even as Bilis scores a deep line down his defensive arm, and he twists around, driving it into Bilis's chest. Not straight into the heart—only a creature with supernatural strength could stab straight through the sternum and the ribs. He aims up, sliding the blade right under the sternum and into the heart, then cutting left and right to sever the blood vessels below it.

There's no final scream or dramatic death scene; Bilis drops like a stone, simply dead, and Ianto staggers back, still holding onto Rhiannon's knife. His hand is splattered in blood, dripping with it, and the knife is little better. His heart is pounding, his stomach is twisting, and he's just killed a man.

But Bilis is dead.

Ianto gags, fights down the instinctive urge to drop to his knees and throw up everything he's eaten, and sucks in a hard breath through his nose.

There's blood on his hand, only now beginning to cool.

But Bilis is dead, the future he remembers is averted, and Rhiannon has, at least for the moment, won.

 _He's_ won.

Not forever, perhaps, and maybe even only this once, but it's enough.

There's a slim, moon-pale hand resting on his shoulder, and a line of fire down his arm. Ianto looks up into Rhiannon's tranquil, lovely face, and she smiles down at him, proud and a little sad.

"My dear, clever Ianto," she says, and takes him home.

* * *

Jack wakes as someone drops down into his bunker, and is already reaching for his Webley before he registers the smell of rosemary soap, traced with an unfamiliar twist of disinfectant. He sits up, blinking in confusion as Ianto slips off his coat and gingerly peels off his shirt.

"Ianto?" he says after a moment. "I didn't hear the door alarm go off." But he loses the train of thought when Ianto turns, baring a long, deep wound in his left arm that looks suspiciously like it was made by a very sharp knife.

"Ianto?" he asks again, sliding out of bed, but this time it's a demand. "What happened?"

Ianto drops the first aid kit he's carrying on the bed and allows Jack to push him down next to it. "Bit of a brawl," he says, and if he's trying for offhand he falls a bit short, sounding more shaken than anything else. "I think I'm too old to be meeting people who want to kill me in deserted streets." But when he looks up at Jack, his eyes are warm. "Sorry to surprise you, but my feet just sort of…carried me here."

Jack looks at him for a long moment, assessing, and then asks softly, "The other guy is dead, isn't he?"

A jerky nod. "If it's any consolation, he was trying most emphatically to kill me," Ianto says wryly, and that alone assures Jack he'll be all right eventually.

"I wasn't worried." Jack lays out the things he needs, carefully meticulous. The cut isn't so deep it will need stitches, but it will definitely need looking after—and more than Ianto will likely give it on his own. "Is this a frequent thing with you? Knife fights?"

"Shady pasts tend to come back to haunt one at the most inconvenient times." Ianto sighs and drops his head back against the wall, eyes closing. They open again after a moment, just a sliver of blue to pin Jack in place. "But I keep on surviving, and that isn't likely to change any time soon."

There's an undercurrent to his words that Jack wonders at, some sort of hidden meaning that it feels as though he should _get_ , but he concentrates on disinfecting and then bandaging the cut.

(Because this is one thing he will never allow himself to hope for. Never, ever, ever. No matter what Ianto seems to be implying.)

* * *

(But, despite everything, Jack is only human. Hope comes naturally, and it's nearly impossible to escape from.)


	5. this is the wonder that's holding the stars apart

They tumble into bed together, hands grasping, gliding, greedy and demanding and so very, very gentle. Ianto feels as though he's drowning, if drowning can ever be warm and sweet as spun sugar, grounding like Jack's fingers on his skin. He sucks in a startled breath as Jack topples him back to the mattress, and is almost surprised to find that breath comes easily, that there's air to be had. And it's good, so good.

Jack is a warm weight on him, a welcome prison of strong limbs and searching, seeking lips against his own. He kisses Ianto like they're both on fire, as though he'll never have another moment of this, but somehow it's not desperate. It's… _cherishing_ , almost, reverent, sweet and good and everything that a first kiss should be even though this is far from their first time. Ianto responds, answers Jack with everything he can call forth, the love in his heart and the awe in his head, the soul-deep wonder that this incredible, singular man is even willing to look at him, let alone do this with him. He tugs his wrists from Jack's grasp and winds them around Jack's shoulders, pulling the Captain down to him, and sucks in a sharp breath through the kiss at the silk-steel press of their entire bodies aligning.

Pulling back a little, Jack looks down at him and smiles, sweet and so very, very beautiful. They're nose to nose, close enough that Ianto can see the faint, barely-there freckles on the Captain's nose, could count his eyelashes if he had the mental faculties for it at the moment. His eyes are incredibly blue, even in the dim light, and Ianto can't help but smile at him, so impossibly happy at this moment that he thinks the world could end in the next moment, that everything could cease to be, and he would go without a single regret in his heart.

"I love you, Jack," he says, and he can't _not_ say it, here and now. "I really, truly do. So much. You've no idea."

And Jack smiles in return, a slow, delightful, delighted curve of lips, and leans down until their foreheads rest together, until Ianto can feel every single one of those eyelashes against his own. "I think I might have some," Jack whispers to him, and somehow that's a thousand times more intimate than anything else, this breath of sound in the near-darkness. "Just an inkling, Ianto, maybe, but I'm pretty sure I feel the same."

Ianto kisses him for that, swift and heated and hungry, as though he can steal the sentiment from Jack's lips and keep it for himself forever. Jack meets him, equally hungry, just as hot, propping himself up on one elbow and tracing his fingers down Ianto's side in a smooth, heavy stroke that manages to set every nerve ending in Ianto's body alight. He gasps into the heated air between them and arches up into Jack, achingly hard and just a little desperate now.

"Please," he says, but it's more of a demand than a please. "Jack, _please_."

"So polite," Jack breathes back, wicked, though he also sounds suspiciously winded. His free hand curves around Ianto's hip, pulling him even closer, and then manages to slide between them, slotting their pricks together and wrapping them in a grip that's just shy of too hard. Ianto gasps in a breath that comes out as a moan, dark and deep. There's fire in his belly, and Jack is an impossible, impossibly dear weight on top of him as he starts to move, turning Ianto's spine to lightning and his brain to _pleasuremoremoremore_. He turns his head, blindly seeking as Jack's lips find his ear, and scores his teeth across Jack's throat. Jack shudder with his whole body, his hand on them losing its careful rhythm, and drops his head to sink his teeth into Ianto's shoulder.

It's unexpected, just on the edge between painful of pleasure, and Ianto's done. He cries out, rough and ragged, and arches into Jack's weight as he comes hard enough to turn his muscles to liquid.

" _God,_ " Jack gasps out, breathless and more entrancing than he's ever been, and with one more pull he's coming as well, hot and wet and messy on Ianto's stomach. He slumps down, forehead naturally falling against Ianto's, and he's close enough to kiss.

Ianto doesn't even attempt to resist the urge. He kisses Jack again, and it's soft and careful and full of the kind of intimacy that normally takes a lifetime to achieve.

 _We'll have that lifetime anyway_ , Ianto thinks, boneless and content and happier than he can ever remember being. _That lifetime and many, many more besides._

* * *

Jack wakes with the sun, suddenly restless in a way he can't contain, and rolls over, carefully sliding out from under Ianto until he can sit up without waking him. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and simply sits there for a moment, staring down at the man who, in a few short months—closer to weeks, really, if Jack's being truthful about it—has come to mean everything to him. He's Jack's compass, the string to Jack's kite and the earth he always returns to. Jack knows himself well enough to realize that he's always been a little flighty, a little wild for this world and this time—any world, any time, because that's just who he is. But Ianto is his earth, his stone, the rock upon which he can build a true home.

It's terrifying in the way that it's not terrifying at all, in the way that the thought just makes Jack want _more_ and _closer_ and _everything_.

He dresses silently, climbs up from the bunker, and snags his coat as he leaves the Hub through the invisible lift. It's still early, the city hardly awake yet, and Jack is all but alone in the Plass. His footsteps seem oddly echoing, loud on the pavement as he heads for the Bay, but there's a breeze and the sun is rising.

Ianto has been different lately, Jack thinks, looking out over the water as he comes to a halt. He's been different, enough so that Jack has noticed, but it's all right.

It's not that Ianto has changed noticeably, overtly. It's just that there's something…lighter about him, as though most—if not all—of his worries have lightened. He's smiling as he never has before, open and free and bright, and it makes him look his true age, rather than the extra decade his suits add.

Jack doesn't think that it's ego that makes him attribute at least a little of that to their relationship.

That's the best thing of all, really. Ianto loves him with his whole heart, and Jack returns the regard with everything that he has in him, because as much as it terrifies him, as scared as he is of loving a mortal and then losing him to the relentless pace of time, there's another part of him—lizard brain, hindbrain, id—that whispers _this is all right._

It's the part that normally warns him off, sends him running, so this change is…startling.

A whisper of fragrance touches the air, cool and soft, traced with foxglove and rosemary and lily, teasing but strong enough to overpower the smell of salt and sea. Jack looks up to see a woman in a flowing white summer dress step up the rail, lifting a hand to hold a tangled tumble of red curls out of her face. She doesn't glance at Jack, never turns her head from the spread of the Bay, but murmurs, "Wales is a beautiful land, isn't she?"

"Hardy," Jack agrees, and he's thinking of the Welshman in his bed, probably waking up alone. Suddenly, Jack's restlessness is gone, and all he wants is to be back there, with Ianto. He can't even say what drove him from that place to begin with.

Because Jack doesn't believe in coincidences, not anymore, he glances at the woman. She's finally looking at him, smiling. The wind whips her long dress around her legs and sends it billowing around her, and surely it's far too cold a day for a dress like that, but she doesn't even seen to feel the chill.

Jack doesn't generally need to get hit more than once with a clue stick, so he raises an eyebrow at her. "Have we had the pleasure?" he asks, already knowing they haven't.

She must read that in his voice or his face, because she smiles at him, wise and winsome. "You've come into possession of something that's mine," she says, gentle and nearly teasing. Jack stiffens automatically, even though there's no anger in it, not even resentment.

"I have?" he asks, playing the fool, even though he's fairly certain he knows what—who—she means, and the mere thought of losing Ianto, of someone coming to take him back, is like a spear of ice stabbing into his chest.

The woman is clearly unimpressed, giving him a sharp look from blue eyes that shouldn't be familiar, but are. "Ianto Jones," she answers calmly, "for all that he's his own person to give. But I've grown fond of him, Captain Harkness, and I'd hate to see him hurt. Be wary with his heart, because it's the most fragile part of him."

She turns away, brushing windswept crimson curls out of her eyes, but then stops and looks back at him. "I'm giving you forever," she tells him plainly, something vast and ancient in her eyes. "Ianto was born here, on my land, of my people, and he is mine from now to eternity. His life is mine to continue, and his death is mine to subvert, but his heart and soul are yours. I share well, man from Boeshane, and I am more merciful than many of my kin, but do not mistake that for leniency. You are not one of mine."

There is a white horse waiting for her across the red bricks, a mare with silver braided into her mane, wearing neither bridle nor saddle. The woman strides up to the mare, inhumanly graceful, places a hand on the proud curve of her neck, and is gone.

Jack takes a long, slow breath, and lets it out again.

A shovel talk from the mother goddess of Wales.

Fantastic. That's a new one for his scrapbook.

Another set of footsteps makes him look around, but this time it's Ianto, smiling wryly and offering a steaming mug of coffee.

"Sorry," he says, but there's humor in his eyes. "She's loyal. It's her thing."

Jack remembers the legends of Rhiannon, and if they're even partly true, that's an massive understatement. He snorts softly, but takes the mug and sets it on the nearest post. Carefully, he grasps Ianto's wrist and tugs him forward, kisses him as softly and sweetly as he knows how, and it's everything he's wanted in his entire life, everything he's never allowed himself to seek.

"So. You've got a patron goddess?" he asks when they separate.

Ianto is flushed from more than just the chill, but he coughs, turning to the Bay to hide a smile. "Something like that," he admits.

Jack leans into him, pressing their sides together, and smiles as well.

Yeah.

This is good.


End file.
